I CAN STOP BEING SWUNG

Asleep,sometimes I ride the pendulum.Striking the material imitation severely,returning briefly to glimpse Spirit's likeness,I bounce back to matter's anti-identity,until, bruised,I awake.

Then I plant my total self inchangeless good,the immovable absolute,the unwavering, unvaryingI AM THAT I AM,and know I've always belonged tothe faithworthy One,locked in to incontestable Truth.Soon I bloom with this indisputable certainty.

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The Snowbird
February 12, 1977
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